


Memoir

by tomanonuniverse



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Burns, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Men Crying, Minor Character Death, Rare Pairings, The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings, YESSS IM NOT THE ONLY ONE IN THE IROVETH/DANDELION TAG I CAN NOW POST MORE WITHOUT SHAME
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 15:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30141339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomanonuniverse/pseuds/tomanonuniverse
Summary: “You ran into a burning building for elven women whom you did not even know,” Iorveth finally says, breaking the silence with a weighty statement and a… confused tone of voice. Dandelion lets the pause after the words stretch for a moment as he blinks in surprise, trying to discern whether he’d heard the other correctly.
Relationships: Iorveth/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Memoir

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in my trash files since forever and finally got the courage to post it cause of the fact that i'm no longer the only one in this shiptag! ladies and gentlemen, we gotem!

Dandelion is an idiot to have thought he, a simple minstrel, could have successfully played the part of the hero. Sometimes, he really wishes someone would knock some sense into him, make him wake up and smell the godsdamned flowers. Real life isn’t like fairy tales or children’s story books. Death is very real, and very permanent, even with magic’s existence.

The pure anguish he’d seen on his very good friend Geralt’s face when that bastard commandant Bernard Loredo had torched a building full of helpless elven women was too much for him to stand by and pretend it was out of his hands. In a split second decision he’d ran to the witcher and ordered him to pursue the vile man like he’d needed to.

_ “Trust me, Geralt!”  _ He’d told him, and the witcher had given him one last look before clenching his jaw in determination and nodding then taking off. Dandelion then turned to the house set ablaze, more horrified at the townsfolk of Flotsam who were watching instead of helping than he was at the ordeal itself.

Pushing past them all, he ran into the flames, already feeling too hot to stay another second inside the moment he’d actually stepped within the building. He still went on, running up stairs and desperately avoiding the fire to the best of his abilities. He was of no use if his fancy doublet caught ablaze so soon.

Despite feeling several burns on his person, he pursued the source of the screams until he reached the top of the wooden tower. There, three bound elven women sat, each tied to a pillar and sobbing helplessly. Quickly, he pulled out his one and only weapon, a dagger he always keeps in his boot, and cut away at two of their ties.

As he ushers them to the window, telling them to leap into the river, he realizes that the last woman’s binds are not rope but metal. Stupidly, he grabs at them, only to holler in pain as the iron cuffs sting his skin. He cursed to himself and panicked, unsure what to do. There was no breaking the pillar without bringing the roof over their heads and he couldn’t break the woman’s hands either— there wasn’t any  _ time. _

_ “Bard!”  _ The woman had shouted at him, drawing him out of his spiral. Her tear-stained face made him wish he were in her place.  _ “Get out of here, bard. There’s nothing you can do. My name is Mottle. Don’t forget it.” _

He hadn’t listened, at first. He’d stubbornly stood his ground, stomped his feet and insisted that there  _ had  _ to be a way. But eventually, his clothes caught fire. He screamed when it licked too close to the skin of his back and, with one last look at the resigned Mottle who still nodded at him despite it all, he jumped out of the window and into the water below.

The liquid abyss was cold, so startlingly cold that he found himself unable to move his limbs for a moment. Just as he began to sink lower, hands grabbed at his shoulders and he was hauled out of the river and onto the deck of a ship. He screamed again when his back met the wooden floors and was immediately flipped onto his front, then taken below deck.

Someone was barking orders but he could barely see in front of him or hear much of anything at all. Nothing other than Mottle’s screams as the fire rages and swallows her whole. He’s not on deck when they die out and he doesn’t know how long she screams for. The only thing that distracts him now is the person trying to rub a healing salve on the burn on his backside.

He flinches but doesn’t cry out, unable to bring himself to make noise, for once. Whoever is behind him is not kind in their motions, as if they were trying to hurt him while helping him. He doesn’t blame them. 

The room’s door opens and Dandelion lifts his head, then freezes. It’s Geralt, standing alongside one of the Scoia'tael leaders, Iorveth. Suddenly, he finds his voice.  _ “Geralt,”  _ he breathes, tears rushing past his eyes as he reaches for the witcher. “Geralt, I’m so sorry! I said— I told you to trust me and I let you  _ down,  _ Geralt, I’m so—!”

“Dandelion, stop,” the White Wolf grunts, kneeling in front of him and grabbing him by the shoulders to steady him. “You did what you could. You didn’t let me down.”

“But  _ Mottle!” _ The bard wails. “I couldn’t save her!”

Geralt only offers him a sad excuse of a comforting smile. “We can’t save everyone,” is all he manages to say before Dandelion surges forward and sobs into his shoulder. The bard is amazed that the witcher is letting him, especially in front of others, but he likes to think that Geralt knows just how close they are, regardless of having lost his memory.

Only once he quiets down and Geralt eventually takes his leave does Dandelion remember that he did not come alone. “I’ll take it from here,” Iorveth snaps at the person behind the bard, who as they run past him reveal themselves to have been a member of the Scoia'tael. Wordlessly, the elven warrior takes their place.

For a moment, Dandelion’s shoulders tense despite himself. If the other elf’s hands were harsh and deliberate in bringing him pain, he can’t imagine what their unit commander’s ministrations would be like. Yet any assumptions he has are proved wrong when Iorveth’s hands touch his skin carefully, as though they were handling something fragile.

The tension leaves him immediately, which allows him to notice the way the commander’s hands still in surprise before carrying on like nothing happened. They sit in silence, because this is not someone Dandelion knows how to speak to. Contrary to popular belief, he knows when it’s better to hold his tongue. He just likes to risk it.

“You ran into a burning building for elven women whom you did not even know,” Iorveth finally says, breaking the silence with a weighty statement and a… confused tone of voice. Dandelion lets the pause after the words stretch for a moment as he blinks in surprise, trying to discern whether he’d heard the other correctly.

When Iorveth doesn’t say anything else, he huffs in disbelief. “I don’t know who or what you take me for,” he mutters, trying to keep his voice as even as he could, “but I wasn’t just going to stand there and watch them burn to death.”

He doesn’t see it but he can most certainly  _ feel  _ the elf raise a brow at him. “The rest of your kind did,” he points out.

Dandelion scoffs. “The rest of my kind are shit.”

That makes Iorveth snort. “On that we can agree,” he sneers. They both fall silent again, but it’s less uncomfortable now, at least on Dandelion’s end. The elf shifts slightly and Dandelion watches as bandages slowly begin to wrap around his torso. When the other is done wrapping his burns, he stops for a second.

The hand that gently settles on Dandelion’s back startles him, but he manages to steel himself into not jumping ten feet off of the bed he was seated on. “In all my years of living, of  _ fighting,” _ the elf starts almost hesitantly, as though he were revealing a great secret. “I have never seen a  _ dhoine  _ weep over our people,” he murmurs, words full of wonder and oddly close to Dandelion’s ear, so much so that they send a shiver up his spine.

Dandelion turns around to face Iorveth. The elf’s head snaps upwards to and their eyes meet, or rather, his one eye meets both of the bard’s. Neither speak, so the troubadour gives a small tilt of his head, not daring to let out the curious sound he wanted to make or start blabbering, lest he say the wrong thing.

It doesn’t seem to matter in the end because Iorveth takes his hand back, like touching Dandelion burned him, and quickly gets to his feet. “Rest,” he barks out, less than gracefully and sounding very much like a demand rather than a suggestion. Dandelion blinks as he watches the commander race out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

He stares at it for a moment, bewildered. Then, he leans over and grabs his satchel, fishes his memoir out of it, and immediately gets to writing.   



End file.
